


Emulation or Imitation: Either Way, It’s Flattery

by oyhumbug



Series: Uncle Roy Series [3]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Anti-Barry Allen, F/M, Family, Fluff, Friendship, Humor, POV Roy Harper, Romance, So. Many. Babies., alternative universe, established relationships - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:53:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27620977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oyhumbug/pseuds/oyhumbug
Summary: Oops, he, Roy Harper, did it again.Not DID.Ugh.Never!But did? Again?Yeah.*sighs*Fuck his life.
Relationships: Felicity Smoak & Roy Harper, Felicity Smoak & Thea Queen, John Diggle/Lyla Michaels, Oliver Queen & Roy Harper, Oliver Queen & Thea Queen, Oliver Queen/Felicity Smoak, Roy Harper/Thea Queen, Team Arrow & Team Flash
Series: Uncle Roy Series [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/266215
Comments: 9
Kudos: 55





	Emulation or Imitation: Either Way, It’s Flattery

**Author's Note:**

> This story randomly came to me this summer. I didn't have plans to continue this series, but then inspiration struck. (See. You never know!) I am almost certain, however, that this will be the last part of the Uncle Roy series. As always, enjoy! 
> 
> Thanks,  
> Charlynn

**Emulation or Imitation: Either Way, It’s Flattery  
** **Part Three of the Uncle Roy Series**

Well, Roy had really done it this time.  
  
Not _really_ really.  
  
And there was certainly no _doing_ … at least, not on Roy’s part.  
  
As for _it_? Absolutely fucking not. As in never. Ever. _Ever_.  
  
Thank you very much!  
  
But, with all of that said, yeah, Felicity Queen was pregnant. Again. And somehow, someway, Roy had once more played his part… which kind of, maybe, sort of made him _partially_ responsible… like a pregnancy pimp. But unwittingly. And unwillingly. And definitely accidentally.   
  
You see, it all started with a 911 call from Central City. Because, you know, it was a day that ended in a ‘y,’ Barry Allen decided to time travel and mess with the timeline, which caused, to put it in simple terms, mucho problemos. Steady and true, responsible - and who would have ever thought _they’d_ be the superhero group less likely to fuck up the world - Team Arrow was called to the land of sunshine and sharks, gorillas and good cheer (man, did Roy hate Central City; it wigged him out) to save the day.  
  
So, really, it was _actually_ all Barry Allen’s fault.  
  
Yeah.  
  
That sounded better. And safer… for Roy. Less… Oliver is going to murder you in your sleep, skin you alive first (you know, for shits, giggles, fun, and torture), and then wear your hide as an extra layer of body (literally) armor. So, that was officially now his story, and he was sticking to it… like a special arrowhead in a concrete block. (Seriously. Try to get one of those loose. Just… try. It was an exercise in futility… much like Oliver and Felicity using birth control, apparently.)  
  
Back to the point, however (and not the arrow point that will be self driven through Roy’s tongue to prevent him from _ever_ talking again and triggering… the consumption of watermelon seeds by one Fertile Myrtle - aka Felicity Queen), because Barry Allen was a selfish, near-sighted dick (if you couldn’t tell, unlike most of the fucking world, Roy wasn’t a fan), Oliver, and Diggle, and Roy, and even Thea came out from behind her CEO desk to clean up yet another of the speedster’s timey-wimey (whatever that meant, Felicity!) messes. So, the team, sans Felicity (there was something about her shirt, and speed flames, and frankly Roy stopped listening as soon as heart emojis began to shoot from Oliver’s eyes and the older archer started to talk out of his own ass) went to Central City.  
  
Central City, in Roy’s opinion, was deceptively bright and shiny - deceptive because, despite its appearance, the worst shit happened there… like Oliver turning off his phone, so Roy had to _coach_ Felicity through the birth of her _fourth freaking daughter_. He _hated_ it. (The town, not his namesake, though that beautifully crafted slice of vengeance was yet something else Roy blamed on the home of the Flash. And, like always, on this latest trip, Central City struck yet again. On one hand, the place had such nice weather that it provided Roy with enough vitamin D synthesis to last until the next tragedy by time travel; on the other hand, it threw an illegitimate child, _a son_ , at Oliver, and then he showed Felicity his _vitamin D_ synthetization skills, and now here they all were: knocked up, moody as hell, hormonal, and blaming Roy.  
  
Okay, so maybe only two out of those four things applied to the whole team (for the record, he was referring to the peevish attitudes and all of the finger pointing going around, not trying to claim that three men had suddenly solved evolution’s greatest f-you to women and somehow found themselves capable of carrying children), but they were _all_ suffering the consequences of the four-signs-that-Oliver-and-Felicity-had-sex-again-apocalypse. Together. As the most fucked up, dysfunctional, ever (unfortunately) growing, Roy must be a masochist because he wouldn’t trade them for anything family. At a fucking gender reveal party no less.  
  
Frankly, it was all just a huge waste of time, because there wasn’t a single person in attendance that evening who didn’t already know that Felicity was incubating her fifth female. But why just simply tell all of their friends and family the inevitable when they could punish Roy instead? Hence, the least revelatory reveal party in the history of unnecessary parental pageantry ever. And in her typically passive-aggressive (or just plain aggressive, because a pregnant Felicity was a mean Felicity) way, his quasi-sister was making Roy the bearer of bad news. Like the least magical magic show with absolutely no illusion or sleight of hand possible, because, again, the gender was inevitable, a foregone conclusion, Roy was to stand in front of practically everyone he knew and tolerated (and, okay, yes, he possibly loved the bastards, too), wear some ridiculous vest packed with (pink) glitter (courtesy of Cisco, that Bastard Barry’s teammate and friend), and let Oliver shoot him with an arrow to show the world (also known as their very small and intimate circle of in-the-know friends and family) that Oliver Queen was incapable of slipping his wife anything but the little pink pez; the blue he reserved for veritable strangers he had one night stands with fifteen years ago.  
  
As Oliver took his position _way too close_ to Roy for this _friendly fire_ not to hurt like a real bitch, Roy had to bite his tongue to keep quiet. Because he wanted to object to all of the blame being placed at his feet, and he wanted to defend himself against the charges being laid against him, and he wanted to, instead, point the fault at who really deserved it: Barry ‘Crybaby’ Allen.  
  
If Barry wasn’t such a… well, _Barry_ , then Team Arrow wouldn’t have gone to Central City.  
  
If Team Arrow wouldn’t have gone to Central City, then Oliver wouldn’t have accidentally run into an ex-spark (flame implied something that was far more lasting than a ten minute fumble in the back of some club - really, it was impressive that Oliver _almost_ remembered the woman’s name) and her fourteen year old son, an unjustly non-pimply doppelganger of adolescent Oliver… but with better hair (hey, Roy was family; he knew where those pictures were kept, and he guarded them like the treasure they were) who made the day of yore tumble not just an ex-spark but also a baby mama and Oliver the father of not just four regrettably named daughters but also a son, too - a son completely separate of and not sharing in any of Felicity Queen’s DNA.   
  
And, if Team Arrow had never discovered that Oliver _was_ capable of having boys… just not with his wife, apparently, then Roy never would have announced, ‘congratulations, Felicity! You no longer have to worry about _not_ providing Oliver with a male heir,’ upon returning to Starling City and the bunker _before_ Oliver had a chance to break the news to his wife that he was (surprise!) the proud papa to a bouncing, brainy (as it turned out), kind of bratty not-so-baby boy.   
  
In Roy’s defense, he wasn’t a husband, so he never considered the fact that the sharing of a long-lost kid with your unsuspecting spouse was a conversation better served in person and not via text or even Facetime… as he had assumed Oliver had shared with Felicity prior to their triumphant (at least in the yay! we didn’t die, and the world is still limping along sort of way) homecoming.   
  
And, finally, if Felicity would have learned of Conner in a less… traumatizing or, apparently, less challenging (to her femininity - she and Oliver had _way too much_ in common for Roy’s sanity) way, maybe she wouldn’t have demanded that her husband ‘put a baby in her right the frak now’ in front of the whole fucking team, immediately launching into the results of her research into how, apparently, various sex positions at the time of conception could possibly impact the baby’s gender… which was just nightmare inducing. It was going on four months later, and Roy still hadn’t recovered. He wouldn’t know a restful, full night’s sleep if it knocked him into a coma.   
  
See. It was all Barry ‘I Have Very Little Muscle Mass So I Pick a Fight with the Universe Instead of Criminals Like a Normal Guy with a Hero Complex’ Allen’s fault.   
  
Oliver smirking in his direction brought Roy back to the unfair moment. The stupid, cruel, overly virile man was enjoying himself… not only at Roy’s expense, because Oliver was about to fire an arrow _into_ him _again,_ but he was as proud as a strutting, pompous, pluming peacock, knowing that shooting Roy was his reward for shooting a whole different kind of projectile into his wife’s… bullseye.  
  
Actually, no. Not bullseye. Because, while Oliver might have hit his mark, bull implied male, and, like Roy had already stated, there was no way in Lian Yu Oliver and Felicity were having a boy. So, instead, it was actually like Oliver had launched his _flechettes_ towards Felicity’s _evil_ eye, because those Queen girls were The. Worst. (Roy loved them all to pieces. In fact, there were days when he would have preferred that they came _in pieces_ and not fully assembled - talking, walking, hitting, spitting, hair pulling, ‘we wanna play pony, Uncle Roy,’ hug giving monsters.)  
  
It was at the thought of his nieces… all four, soon to be five, of them… that Roy felt the impact of the arrow come into contact with his chest. Before he could even absorb the blow, he was being showered in fifty shades of _pink_. (He was fucking clairvoyant. Take a seat, Madame Cleo; Roy Harper was on the scene now.) Magenta, rose, and flamingo. Fuchsia and carnation. Ballet Slipper. Fucking bubble gum. He wasn’t sure what stung more: the knowledge that, despite all of his complaining, he was maybe a little bit excited for Oliver and Felicity (and himself) _or_ the thousands of tiny, microscopic slices of glitter burrowing into his exposed skin. If his jaw wasn’t cut before (it was something Thea had always complimented… and, yeah, that might have been happening again - and, by happening, Roy meant _happening_ ), it sure as shit was now.   
  
To rub salt into his wounds, Felicity was crying her lack of male making abilities (despite the fact that she had nothing to do with it), and her husband, who did, was obviously not sharing in that mind meld if the gloating, high-fiving, chest puffing, belly kissing, ‘I wanted another daughter all along’ crowing performance was any indication. And it was. All of this made Roy worry that the horror franchise that was ‘The Queens’ Spawn’ wasn’t going to end anytime soon. (What he did know for sure was that, no matter what!, he would not get a producing credit on ‘The Queens’ Spawn VI: Yes, Their Sex Life Still Lives… Somehow’ if it was ever made… oh, say, in approximately twelve to eighteen months, give or take.)  
  
His only (silent and private - definitely private, because, otherwise, it wouldn’t be _happening_ ) consolation was the fact that, when this whole disaster of a gender (confirmation) party was said and done, Uncle Roy was going to take Aunt Thea home with him and have her help him _disappear_ all that fucking glitter down the shower drain. Hopefully, it somehow made its way to Central City, up through Barry ‘Asshole’ Allen’s pipes, out of his shower head while Barry ‘Roy Really Didn’t Like Him If You Can’t Tell’ Allen was washing up, and straight into that credit hogging but blame dodging dickhead’s eye.   
  
_Pink_ fucking lining.

_Twenty-Three Weeks Later…_

So, apparently, around Starling General Hospital, Roy Harper was famous. Or maybe that was infamous. Neither seemed fair, especially when, for the banshee screaming down the hall (and that was well deserved in labor screaming and not… any other kind of screaming, because Roy didn’t know what kind of sounds Felicity made when she did _that_ , and not only his sanity but also his life (you know, so Oliver wouldn’t _murder_ him) depended upon Roy never even accidentally listening to that _playlist_ ), it was all deference, and ass-kissing, and _Mrs. Queen_. Because seriously. You donate _one wing_ and invent several pieces of revolutionary, life-saving medical technology, and, suddenly, you’re, what, special? _Royalty_? Whatever.   
  
Anyway, Roy’s… celebrity status came with a nickname: Uncle Slip-n-Slide… which, yes, was fair. He couldn’t say or do anything to justify his… performance in the labor and delivery room when Harper was born, and there was no explaining away some of his more… colorful observations while Felicity was giving birth to his fourth niece. But, still, the notoriety kind of sucked. And it stung, too, because, while everybody snickered when they walked past him, sitting and waiting in the family lounge, no one said anything about the frequent flyers he was there to see and support. Double fucking standard, if you asked Roy. But whatever. At least he wasn’t holding Felicity’s hand this time. Roy would take snickers (and, unfortunately, they weren’t of the candy variety) and smirks over pulverized sausage fingers any and all days of the week.   
  
He was alone with his thoughts (and embarrassment), no one there to further tease him. Digg and Lyla were off with Sporty, Scary, Ginger (where the hell the _strawberry_ -blonde hair came from, no one knew), and Baby (which, apparently, made spawn number five Posh… and what the hell had come of Roy’s life that he not only knew of but could list off the Spice Girls?!?!), while Thea was in the hospital room with her brother and sister-in-law, and Roy had been demoted to errand boy, fetching coffees on command. (Sure, you draw dirty pictures on your nieces’ bellies with permanent markers the day before their annual pediatrician appointment _just once_ , and, suddenly, what, you’re not good enough to babysit anymore? Whatever. Whiners. He’d rather lose all feeling in his ass from sitting around and waiting for _forever_ than have a sleepover with four tiny yet somehow extremely competent bed hogs anyway.)   
  
Suddenly, the screeching stopped. Roy knew what that meant. Intimately. Like… so intimately that not even bleach and electroshock therapy could have erased the knowledge from his scarred and traumatized mind. The pentagram was complete; Queen Baby Number Five had arrived. There would be a few minutes of blissful oohing and aahing, exhausted cooing, and _way_ too many bodily fluids to name, and then the howling would start again but thankfully last for only a few minutes. And then… gorgeous, _earned_ silence. Well, you know, besides the constant buzzing of a busy metropolitan hospital and continual paging of Doctors Pompous and Self-Important and Nurses We’re Only Naughty in Adult Films Not in Real Life.  
  
Against Roy’s better judgement, he found himself becoming curious. Just a smidgeon. He was wondering what ridiculous name Oliver and Felicity had picked this time, and he was hoping that the baby wasn’t _that_ big, because nobody, but especially Roy, needed to hear Felicity _repeatedly_ share tips on how to _remodel_ one’s _downstairs_ through strength training exercises after an eight pound tornado swept through _storm alley_ … if you catch Roy’s drift. And he wouldn’t even object to maybe even holding the squirming bundle of _way too much_ responsibility and work _after_ it had a bath. A long bath. To wash away all of the… goo - goo that had absolutely nothing to do with Felicity’s insides and ladybits, because, if it did (which it didn’t), then Roy would never be able to hold his new niece, and he sort of liked how babies smelled.   
  
He was a weak man.   
  
Being around Oliver, Felicity, Thea, and the rest of their ramshackle, crazy-ass, seemingly constantly multiplying family had softened him. Roy Harper had absolutely no street cred left.   
  
When Roy saw Thea coming towards him down the hall, he was surprised that she wasn’t skipping. Or smiling. Or showing every innocent bystander inappropriately personal photos - or, hell, even video! - of her niece’s arrival. Because Thea Queen _loved_ being an aunt. She was able to spoil her brother’s children rotten and then send them home for their parents to deal with when they wouldn’t listen, or go to sleep, or eat their vegetables, or take a bath, or stop talking, or keep their diaper on, or just in general behave. (Had Roy failed to mention that the Queen children were all little shits - regular chips off the old blocks? It was his favorite thing about all of them.) Instead of exuberance, Thea seemed slightly subdued, definitely exhausted, and maybe even a little pale.   
  
Huh?   
  
Weird.   
  
While it was true that Roy had dined out on….   
  
Nope. Just no. _Way_ wrong choice of words there.   
  
He mentally rewound his own thoughts. Roy had milked?   
  
Ack.   
  
That didn’t work either.   
  
Roy had _aired his grievances_ about filling in for Oliver during Harper’s delivery for _months_ after the fact, but weren’t girls just inherently… Roy didn’t know?... prepared for the shitshow that was labor? Judging by Thea’s reaction, apparently not… which worked for Roy, because maybe now he could _finally_ get a little sympathy. And commiseration. If nothing else, Thea could now share in the burden of Felicity’s taunting.   
  
Collapsing beside him, Thea threw a wan grin in Roy’s direction. Without prompting, she stated, “six pounds, nine ounces.”   
  
Ha! If those numbers had been in use the night (or day, Roy didn’t know… or care to know) Felicity had become pregnant, then Roy wouldn’t be wondering if he would ever feel his own ass again. Then again, those numbers were being said out loud _way too soon_ after Roy himself had contemplated the words ‘dined out’ in reference to Felicity’s previous birthing experience. And, yeah, Roy’s appetite was now gone. For good.   
  
“They named her Belladonna.” Tilting his head to the side and _barely_ suppressing a snort, Roy threw Thea a classic ‘you’ve gotta be kidding me,’ eye roll. “But they plan on just calling her Ella.”   
  
Then why not just name her _that_? Ugh. His family. Morons, all of them.   
  
Just as Roy was about to sit back, slouch down, and try to catch some well-deserved shut eye (what?! He had logged a lot of steps fetching coffee for his and her royal pains in his ass), Thea whispered, “congratulations,” to him, holding out not one but _two_ pink cigars.  
  
“What the hell are those,” he demanded to know.  
  
“They’re cigars.”  
  
“I mean, not really.” And seriously? What. The. Fuck. Perhaps the only nice thing that came out of Oliver’s propensity for knocking up his wife were the Cubans Roy received as (miniscule!) compensation. Say what you want about Oliver Queen, but the guy did not skimp on the cigars. Putting his Bratva connections to good use, Oliver played six degrees of Anatoly Knyazev and was able to give his friends and family the good stuff: real, authentic Cubans to celebrate the birth (and then another birth, and then yet another birth, and then why the hell not yet one more birth) of his daughters. But this? Bubble gum cigars? Oliver had to be joking. Right?  
  
“Take the cigars, Roy.” Like the self-preserving (read: whipped) genius he was, Roy did as he was bid. “Now chew them.”  
  
“I really don’t….”  
  
“I said chew them,” Thea snapped, cutting him off. Dutifully, Roy started to unwrap the candy.   
  
“I still don’t understand why they’re not real cigars,” Roy grumbled.  
  
“Because I can’t smoke real cigars.”  
  
He snorted, teasing her, “that’s never stopped you from trying before.”  
  
“Okay, maybe I should say that I _shouldn’t_ be smoking real cigars. _Now_.”  
  
“Yeah, I don’t get it.”  
  
Angling her body towards his, Thea reached over, cupped Roy’s face, and then patted his cheek… like he was a little boy to be patronized. And, yeah, sure, maybe he could on occasion be the slightest bit childish, but what could he say; Oliver and Felicity’s brats brought out his inner five year old. “Never has that been more apparent.”  
  
Ignoring the dig, Roy asked, “do I even want to know why there are two of them?”  
  
Frankly - _way too_ frankly given the words coming out of Thea’s mouth, she explained, “because there’s not one but _two_ babies - _two girl_ babies - growing inside of me, _Daddy_ Roy.”  
  
The last thought Roy had before he… took an involuntary nap was ‘goddamn you, Barry Fucking ‘This Was ALL Caused by a Trip to Central City’ Allen!’  
  
  


_Five… Okay, So It Was More Like Thirteen But Who Was Counting Other Than the Nurse Literally Checking His Pulse and Watching the Clock from Beside Him… Minutes Later…_

Seriously. What the hell was wrong with these Queens? Didn’t they realize that the world currently had a population problem and, hey, hint: it wasn’t a lack thereof. Did they somehow mistakenly believe that they needed to single handedly (as a family) raise the national birth rate? Because there was no other explanation for how fucking fertile they ALL were. And, yeah, sure, Roy played a role in Thea having his twins (holy! hell!), but he stood by the fact - it wasn’t an opinion; it was fact - that it was all her lady parts’ fault, because, hello!, he was an only child, whereas her brother currently had half a dozen children. And probably counting. Shit, Roy wouldn’t put it past Oliver to have already knocked Felicity up simply from staring at her adoringly while she held his fifth daughter in her arms.  
  
Once he was… somewhat coherent, sitting up (which translated to being partially reclined on the waiting room floor while leaning against the chair he had formerly been occupying, and alone once more with Thea (the nurse satisfied that he wasn’t, you know, dead from impending fatherhood), Roy had thoughts. Lots and lots of _very_ important thoughts. “Three things: I’m having a vasectomy. Tomorrow. No, make that today. Just to be… safe. And, as soon as those girls” (he couldn’t quite say ‘our daughters,’ not… yet) “are… out of you,” he frowned at that, not wanting to picture _Little Big Roy_ ’s favorite place to hide being submitted to the same terrible treatment as Felicity’s... baby chute, “you’re having your tubes tied.”  
  
“100% agreed.” Wow. Okay. That was easier than Roy thought it was going to be. Apparently, he and Thea were already on the same page. That was a good start to being… the things that made adults the most adult-y. You know, _the p_ word… that appropriately rhymed with _aberrant._ “What’s the third thing?”  
  
“Your brother can _never_ find out… not only because, you know, you, me, sex, and I really don’t want to die. Not yet. At least, not before we can school Oliver and Felicity on how not to be douchenozzles when naming… things.” Yep, still couldn’t bring himself to say anything less vague and non-I’m Just-a-Reluctant-Uncle-and-Never-Anything-More-Responsible-than-That. “But, more importantly, because, once he finds out that you… I mean, me - we….” Swallowing thickly, he finally managed to squeak out, “two. Once he learns about… the two, he’ll never stop impregnating Felicity. His competitive nature, his pride, won’t allow him to rest until she gives him _triplets_. And he wouldn’t have to murder me then. A Felicity Queen incubating _three babies at once_ would kill me. Hell, it would probably wipe out the entire planet. No, make that the solar system. It’d be Babygeddon!… which four syllables,” Roy laughed hysterically. He was also feeling slightly lightheaded again. And were there always little brightly colored floating dots in the fluorescent lighting, or was that just him? “They won’t even have to Google ‘the longest fucking names to saddle your kids with’ next time. You’re welcome. The godfather title is unnecessary and unwelcome.”  
  
With more patience than Roy deserved, Thea asked him, “are you finished?”  
  
“Not yet,” he answered with a little too much impertinence… which earned him a pinch to the side - OW!, “but I will be as soon as your brother finds out that… I can chew more cigars at once than he can.” Which wasn’t exactly accurate, considering Roy had choked on said gum cigars once he _finally_ fully grasped what Thea was trying to tell him with the pink candy sticks. But details. Semantics. Whatever. His euphemism wasn’t perfect, but he was having a crisis of reproduction here! Give a poor guy a break.   
  
Ignoring the fact that he was spiraling out way past the point of no return, Thea patted Roy on the head… like a goddamn dog… and then stood up. “Go,” she ordered him, immediately prompting Roy to scramble to his feet. He only swayed twice, wobbled once, so win? All that parkour and, you know, being an agile, ass-kicking vigilante had its benefits, apparently. “Meet your new niece.” Obediently (okay, so maybe he could understand why Thea treated him like a pet… but a rough around the edges, missing half of one of his ears pound puppy, not some fancy, prissy kennel bitch), he started towards the nursery. Just as the door to the family lounge was about to soundlessly shut behind him, Roy heard his… Baby Mama offer one last parting piece of advice. “And you better lie through your teeth and tell my brother and Felicity how cute she is, because Oliver figured out I was pregnant before even I did, and he already sent a text to Digg to get the van ready.”  
  
Roy froze, sightlessly reaching backwards to hold the door open. “Which van,” he asked with trepidation.  
  
“ _The van_ ,” Thea reiterated, making Roy swallow roughly. “The windowless van.”   
  
AKA: The Serial Killer Van.   
  
Like a man on death row, Roy slowly walked towards his fate. He knew he could run. (But there was a reason why Thea was nicknamed Speedy.) And he could hide. (But could anyone _ever_ truly hide from Felicity Queen?) And he could have left the hospital, taken a Lyft to the train station, bought a ticket to Central City, found Barry ‘Roy’s Mortal Enemy’ Allen, and punched that time-meddling dickhead in the face. (But that wouldn’t do anything but make Roy feel (temporarily) better; he’d still have to eventually come home and face the _Killer Queen_ music.) So, instead, he was going to do as the mother of his children (And, whoa!, he wasn’t going to be used to that _anytime_ soon) told him to do, and he was going to hold his niece.  
  
And, you know, _never_ let her go. Because Oliver (probably?) wouldn’t murder Roy if Roy was holding his infant daughter.   
  
It didn’t count as hostage taking unless you purposefully threatened your human body shield, right?   
  
Right.   
  
Roy had this.  
  
It was going to be fine.  
  
 _He_ was going to be fine.   
  
No, what he was going to be was a _father_ , and, yep, that was the floor.  
  
Hello, floor.   
  
Nice to see you.  
  
Again.  
  
Guess what? Evidently, it’s nap time. Once more. Unscheduled, unconscious (both literally and figuratively) nap time.

_Seven… Hey! He’s Getting Better At This… Minutes Later…._

Roy came to awareness with the scent of a Cuban cigar under his nose and an amused Oliver Queen smirking down at him.   
  
“Watermelon seeds,” Oliver practically grunted. And Roy was already nodding, though he had absolutely no idea what the hell was going on. “My sister _accidently_ ate _two_ watermelon seeds. And we’re _never_ talking about _any_ of this again.”  
  
Man, Roy _really_ loved his big, dumb, quirky, vengeful, overcompensating, fertile, slutty (ew, gross!), proud family… all, you know, by the time Oliver and Felicity were _finally_ done having babies, 320,594 of them. “Okay,” he agreed with Oliver’s terms. Accepting the hand held down towards him, he allowed Oliver to help him to his feet. “But maybe we should all, I don’t know, _stop_ eating watermelons?”  
  
In response, Oliver just smiled widely, wiggling his eyebrows.   
  
Oh, you have to be fucking kidding. Like… seriously. Oliver _was_ joking. Right?  
  
As Roy trailed after his friend, his mentor, his brother in spirit, and, now, probably his actual future brother-in-law, he begged, he pleaded, he bargained for… even a shred of reassurance. “You’re really not thinking about having another kid, are you?” Then he pulled out the big guns. “Does Felicity know about this?”  
  
For all of his (very brave) efforts, Roy received laughter.   
  
Ugh. His family was _the worst_!

_WAY Too Many (Manly) Unplanned (Much Like His Journey Into Fatherhood)_ Naps _to Count Later…_

It was official. Roy Harper was a _dad_.   
  
He had children.  
  
Daughters.  
  
Two of them.  
  
As in twins.   
  
Identical fucking twins.  
  
So help him!   
  
And them, too, probably… considering he was their father, and their mother’s side of the family was just nuts.  
  
There was Maeve, named for her grandmother, and then there was Olivia… much to Roy’s chagrin, exasperation, and honor… if one could even feel all three of those things at once. Which he did, so, apparently, one could. Weird.   
  
Anyway, yeah, he was also a husband now, too. After Thea told him that she was pregnant, they got married, officially making her _Mrs. Slip-n-Slide_ around Starling General. So, it was probably a good thing they didn’t plan on having any more children (and couldn’t - thank you, Snip-Snip Doctors), because Thea was never going to have sex with him again.   
  
As for Oliver and Felicity’s… out of control breeding habits, they promised, avowed!, that they were done having kids. Finished. The baby making factory was officially closed. (But, for the record, not surgically demolished.) Only time, rampant insecurities, an inevitable future revival of the _Hero Games_ , and watermelon seeds would tell.


End file.
